New Employment
by R.Harper
Summary: One-Shot. Set Post S2 - After everything he has seen, and all he has lost and gained , can Ianto comprehend a life without Torchwood and Jack?


**A/N: Hi everyone. I'm just testing out a series of one-shots at the moment, written mainly in my spare time at work (naughty naughty), and about my favourite TV shows/films.**

**I'm a huge, self confessed Torchwood and Doctor Who nerd, so I thought I would write my first fic, from Ianto's perspective. Set post S2 and pre COE, because I don't like to think about that series much (I get weepy).**

**Anyway, enough rambling. If you want to leave feedback that would be most appreciated, and if not, I hope you enjoy reading this.**

Sometimes, when you've got your back against a wall, holding your breath in case the pack of Weevils that've cut you off hear you and come to finish you off, you seriously contemplate finding a new job.

Imagine, a job with considerably lessened prospects of death. How bizarre. No need to check your (immaculately pressed) suit jacket pocket for the gun you have to carry before you step out of the door. No need to go to the same butchers each week to order an abnormal amount of meat, and collect bags of fruit for the pterodactyl living in the office. No need to eye everyone and everything you meet with a low-grade level of suspicion.

Weird.

After Tosh and Owen, you looked at Gwen, who couldn't stop crying, and felt Jack's anger rolling from him in waves. You thought then that you'd get out while you still could, and perhaps try and settle down, find some nice girl.

But that's the problem, isn't it?

You can pretend you want a quiet life as much as you want, but deep down you know quiet life means no Jack. And no Jack means no light or excitement in your otherwise drab, boring existence. You tried to explain it to the headstone Lisa's family had erected for her, but the words didn't come out right. If she was still around you wouldn't have looked twice at Jack; it was as if he forced himself into your perception and demanded you fall harder for him than you've ever done for anyone. Love with Jack isn't like love with Lisa. Lisa was support and nurturing and soft giggles and fun days out. Jack is like a waterfall, terrifying and immeasurable sometimes, but with an air of mystery and beauty. You can't even comprehend him, even when you lie next to him after he's taken you whichever way he wants, and you watch the defined chest rise and fall, while you wince a little at your whiter than white skin against the army issue grey sheets Jack uses in his bedroom cubby hole, above the archives in the vaults.

He can be suggestive and a little lewd sometimes, and you've lost track of the amount of times you roll your eyes at him a day. When he walks past you as you bend down to retrieve the milk from the fridge and brushes the knuckles of his hand against your backside, you want to tell him to keep your hands to himself, but you blush like some bloody virgin and clear your throat to stop yourself from laughing.

When you do go back to the flat after Jack has waved you off vaguely whilst poring over some alien trinket, sleeves rolled to show strong, tanned forearms, you sit on the sofa, watch television, drink a beer and think how very _mundane_ your life is outside of work. Not that you have a life of course – you don't see Rhi and the kids as much as you should, and Lord knows you don't really have friends anymore. Your Mam and Tad are both long gone, and sometimes you think that if anything happened to you in the flat, nobody would even come looking for days.

You have a drink whenever thoughts like that cross your mind. Not pleasant, and definitely not worth spending your time worrying about, especially when you have so little time away from work anyway.

In the time before Canary Wharf, when you had a calm, normal job, you used to do things. You played rugby for the local team, went for drinks down the pub after work, did DIY (not very well) at the weekends. Took Lisa for lunch, planned a wedding…

The grief still grips your heart at random intervals; walking through a supermarket, lying in bed watching _Sleepless In Seattle_ (her favourite film) in bed at night, crying like a baby as you think of what you've lost. Her parents haven't spoken to you since the memorial service after her death. Her mother, usually so tender and funny, couldn't even look at you, and her firm but kind father look so devastated you felt nauseous. If they'd only known that you held their precious baby, half encased in metal, barely alive, in a damp cavern far below ground. You try not to think too much about the final end of her life; the actions that got you suspended, the agony you felt as you heard the screams whilst Myfanwy attacked her, and the pain as you saw her shot, inhabiting somebody else's body.

The next few months had passed in a haze of grief and anger, evenings spent staring straight ahead at the wall, or weeping hysterically at the sight of her picture, or an old ticket stub from the cinema.

Only after a full four months could you even bear to be around the others outside of work. Their pitying, reproachful gazes took a long time to neutralise, and with them went your anger. Jack stormed into your dreams not too long after that, and you felt so sick with guilt that you were even thinking about somebody else, let alone a man. You know you aren't gay (like, proper gay), because this is definitely the first time you've ever felt like this about a bloke, straight up. He began to intrude into your waking thoughts too, and your heart broke all over again when it seemed certain Jack had died, _properly_. It felt like all the paper you had spread over the cracks was ripped off again, leaving you raw and bleeding beneath. When he finally did come back, you felt like you were able to breathe again freely.

After everything you've done, all the death and madness you've seen, it's no wonder you don't sleep properly anymore. The time when your body is supposed to heal and rejuvenate doesn't seem long enough, and you wake in the early hours, anxious and panting. And the nightmares…

You had one a while ago, something different, inexplicable. There was a child, stood stock still, absolutely unmoving, even whilst commuters and shoppers walked past him. His eyes were open, but blank and almost unseeing. You tried to get closer, to see what was wrong with him, but your legs are lead, and you're forced to stand where you are, just watching him. The road around him gets busier and busier, and the chattering, bustling noise reaches a deafening pitch. You stand, squirming as you watch the statue child, and just as you think you can't possibly take anymore, his mouth opens and you cringe at the sight of his contorted, twisted face.

You woke up in a sweat, panic pounding through your veins and arteries. You didn't tell Jack – what would he say? He doesn't do dreams and clairvoyants and fate and all that stuff. Says it means nothing, and only science and cold, hard evidence can be relied on.

Says the man who has travelled through time and fights aliens.

So yes, sometimes you do contemplate asking Gwen or Jack to Retcon you, so you wake up in your own bed, remembering only that you are an out of work administrator with an unhealthy interest in coffee.

But then you think of the life-changing things you have seen, and people (person) you have met, and your firm resolve fades away for another few weeks.

Because what kind of life would that be? Plain, routine, _dull_.

No excitement.

No fear.

No Jack.


End file.
